


A lady in the dragon's den

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Courtship, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Except Jon won't stand for gaslighting, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gaslighting, Holding Hands, House Targaryen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon and Sansa are cousins, King's Landing, Love Poems, Slow Dancing, Stuttering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-21 15:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12460746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Sansa Stark comes to King's Landing to meet the Targaryen court, and to be introduced to Aegon Targaryen. But Aegon's brother Jon falls for Sansa when they share an initially awkward dance.Then Mad King Aerys attempts to take liberties with Sansa at night. Jon is ordered to find her in the gardens and convince her she'd only imagined the assault. Jon defends her instead, and apologizes for his family's behavior. He and Lady Sansa grow closer, and Jon works up the courage to ask permission to court Sansa before the Starks depart. Sansa slips a poem into Jon's hand as she leaves, and Jon's inspired to  write one of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From a tumblr prompt asking for a fic where all the Targaryens are still alive, Aerys is a creep to Sansa, and Jon comforts her. 
> 
> Please, I beg you, go easy on me if I've mucked up the court politics - this is the first "Prince Jon at King's Landing" fic I've ever attempted where all the Targaryens are alive. 
> 
> Also, there's poetry. Yep, love poems, I went there. :)

Jon Targaryen was not meant for Sansa Stark.

Rhaegar had arranged for Lady Stark to travel to King’s Landing. She was to be presented as a candidate for betrothal to Aegon. Sansa’s mother and father would accompany her.

The castle’s hallways buzzed the day the Starks arrived. Jon stood next to Viserys and Aegon, the Iron Throne looming behind them.

Jon had grown accustomed to attractive girls appearing at court. Margaery Tyrell, the “Rose of Highgarden,” had shocked the throne room last month with her scandalous attire. 

But Sansa Stark took Jon’s breath away when the crowd parted to give her passage.

Sansa was beautiful, poised, graceful in her lavender gown. She curtsied to the court. The lords and ladies looking down from the balcony murmured as she stood.

Rhaegar welcomed her. King Aerys had “fallen ill”, as he did more and more often these days before highborn families came to King’s Landing. Rhaegar had decided that a raving, drooling king did not inspire confidence in the realm, and had deftly sequestered Aerys in his rooms.

“It is an honor to meet you, Lady Sansa. You must dine with us tonight. We’ve prepared a feast in your honor.”

Jon bit back his frustration. The Starks had traveled far, but Rhaegar wouldn’t give them a single night to recover from their journey.  That was his father’s way. If Rhaegar was ready to drink and dance, the court would follow suit, and entertain him.

***

The great hall was transformed that evening. Candlelight illuminated the room. The dining tables were heaped with golden dishes. Musicians were stationed in the corners, making sure there would be a “merry mood,” as Jon’s father liked to say. The dance floor was polished to a shine.

Jon resisted the urge to scratch the black wool on his arm. The Targaryens at the high table were dressed in their most expensive black and red finery. Rhaegar had forbidden members of the court from wearing House Targaryen’s colors, so the royal family would stand out “like jewels in a setting.”

Jon rather thought they looked like a slightly ridiculous small army, especially because Daenerys and Rhaenys were visiting Dorne.

Aegon was the picture of courtesy when the evening began. He briefly lavished attention on Sansa, kissing her hand, telling her how lovely she looked. He danced with her only a few times, though, before he got well into his cups. Jon sighed. He’d seen this before, and he was sure he’d see it again. Aegon found the girl dull, and had dismissed her.

Sansa resumed her seat next to her father. She seemed withdrawn, thought you had to look closely to see it. Jon’s heart went out to her.

“Gods, stop mooning,” Viserys hissed into his ear. Jon could smell the wine on his breath. “Go talk to her. I’m sure Rhaegar won’t mind. You’re her cousin. Family bonds and all that.”

Jon glanced over at his father.

Rhaegar was regal as ever, his silver hair the envy of men and women alike. He was charming his dinner companions, eliciting laughter. Even so, his movements were clipped, and he ate less than usual. Jon caught him avoiding Ned Stark’s glowering countenance.

There was no love lost between Rhaegar and Ned Stark. Lyanna Stark had loved Rhaegar, and wed him with Elia’s blessing. Jon had always wondered whether that blessing was freely given, but it wasn’t his place to ask.

Ned had been by Lyanna’s side when she died in the birthing bed. He and Rhaegar had almost come to blows. Howland Reed had reportedly pried them apart, as Jon cried in his wet nurse’s arms.

Jon suspected neither Rhaegar nor Ned had forgiven him for Lyanna’s death.

He hadn’t forgiven himself.

“I swear you’re spoiling this wine with your brooding.” Viserys wrinkled his nose at his goblet. “Dornish swill. Bitter on the tongue.”

 _Hasn’t stopped you from drinking your weight in it_ , Jon thought, but he kept silent.

“Go, or I’ll kick you onto the floor myself.” Viserys’s eyes were bloodshot.

“I’d like to see you try,” Jon said evenly. Viserys shrank back in his chair. He knew Jon could crush him in the training yard.

Jon still took Viserys’s advice. All the princes would dance with Sansa in turn tonight, after all. Jon wondered if Viserys would be able to stay on his feet.

Jon had been dreading this moment. He was a terrible dancer, enough that a crowd gathered to titter and point when he took a girl in his arms.

He’d stepped on Margaery Tyrell’s feet last month, hard enough for her to suck in a breath. She’d waived away his apologies, but hadn’t gone near him after that. And why would she? Aegon had fawned over her for weeks, ensnared by her low-cut attire and melodious laugh.

Sansa’s blue silk dress was modest, almost old-fashioned compared to Margaery’s green and gold gowns. But she still looked stunning to Jon. Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes were downcast when he came to her table.

Jon first bowed to Lord and Lady Stark. His uncle’s eyes were impossible to read. _I’m sorry_ , Jon wished he could say. _I know how much you loved my mother. I’m sorry she brought me into the world only to depart herself._

But the words stuck in his throat, and they would never be enough.

Ned Stark bowed in return, and kept his silence. Jon’s stomach churned, but he moved on to Sansa. She set down her fork and curtsied. Jon’s heart started to pound. Her beauty drove his dark thoughts clean away.

“My Prince.” Sansa bowed her head.

Her hair’s like fire, like autumn leaves, like copper in this candlelight, Jon thought.

He realized he hadn’t spoken for a full minute. Gods, she was going to think he was doing this only out of duty, that he found her disappointing as well.

“L-Lady Sansa.” His stutter was back. He’d hoped he’d left that behind years ago, after Aerys practically beat it out of him. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

“Of course, my prince, the honor would be mine,” she said smoothly. She stepped lightly onto the dance floor, and Jon took her in his arms. She was suddenly close, so close he got lost in her blue eyes, as blue as the summer sky...

Sansa swallowed, and Jon didn’t need Viserys to know he should kick himself. _Talk, you idiot, start moving, make her comfortable._ They began to dance.

“Forgive me, my lady.” Aegon would have told her how beautiful her eyes were, but Jon did not have his brother’s gift for flattery. “I only – you look tired, I’m sorry my father insisted on this feast so soon.”

Sansa tilted her head. _Come up with something to compliment her on. Gods, you should have been born a blacksmith._

“Your hair is red,” he blurted, then flushed. “I-I didn’t mean...you are...” He managed to step on her gown. Jon wished he could hang his head. “I am sorry my lady. I’m a terrible dancer, and not very adept at-“

“Talking to girls?” Sansa was smiling, somehow, despite his miserable efforts. She’d recovered from his misstep instantly, and pulled him back into the dance.

“Yes. Talking in general, really. I beg your pardon for being such a poor partner.”

They were in the center of the dance floor, and other couples were far enough away that they could converse without being heard. The Targaryen court gave princes a wide berth. Aegon and Viserys were known for stealing kisses from their partners, and the lords and ladies knew how to ignore that behavior.

No worries there, Jon thought. I’ll be lucky if I don’t topple her over.

“You are a wonderful partner, your highness.”

They were the right words, said at the right time, and Jon was sure she did not mean them.

“It’s kind of you to say so, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa bit her lip. “You truly are, Prince Jon. You haven’t told me once how beautiful I am, or how well I dance, or all the other words men murmur while they...”

They undress you with their eyes, Jon thought. He’d seen his brothers and his father – even his loathsome grandfather, who’d been propped up in a chair – stare at her greedily throughout the night.

Jon spun Sansa around successfully, for a small miracle. Her cheeks had more color when she faced him again.

The music slowed. Right on cue, the men drew their partners closer. Jon panicked, but Sansa put her hand higher on his shoulder. Jon’s mouth was dry as his hand settled on her waist.

Sansa danced with him in silence for several minutes. Jon began to relax. The quiet felt almost comfortable, though he was still keenly aware of how near Sansa was. He caught the scent of her lavender perfume.

Sansa’s eyes were lively when she spoke again.

“I’m...I’m grateful, Prince Jon. You’re gracious. I am tired, and we did travel a long way. It’s kind of you to notice.” She smiled again. “And my hair is red, after all.”

Jon knew then that he’d do anything, anything in his power, to keep her happy, to see that wonderful smile.

 _Careful_ , he thought, _she’s not meant for you, she’s here for Aegon._

But she was warm and sweet in his arms, as they chatted about her journey, and his family. His stutter melted away. She laughed when he confided that he thought his family’s garb was preposterous.

Then he ruined it. He asked Sansa about Winterfell before he could stop himself.

“What is it, my prince? Are you well?” Sansa’s brow was furrowed.

He faltered, then decided to tell her the truth. “I shouldn’t have asked, my lady. About Winterfell. About your home.”

“Why not? You aren’t the only one with tales of irksome brothers. I have some of my own.” She squeezed his hand playfully, and he gave her a small smile.

“M-my mother. I did not...” How could he explain it? He’d never been to Winterfell, not once. He suspected the castle’s doors would slam shut of their own accord if he tried.

A wild and wonderful woman had left Winterfell, and never returned, and he was the cause.

Sansa’s gaze was soft. “My family does not blame you, my prince. My father does not hold you responsible for her death. You were only a babe. Is that why you haven’t accepted our invitations to come to the North? Because of Lyanna?”

Jon sighed. “Yes, my lady.”

“Forgive me for being bold, your highness, but most in Winterfell would welcome you. There are many who would like to meet Lyanna’s son. You look so much like her.”

Jon was startled. Lyanna was a famous beauty. Jon was plain, a poor excuse for a Targaryen. His eyes were grey, not sparkling amethysts. His hair did not shine like molten silver.

“Prince Jon?”

He’d done it again, fallen silent. “I’m sorry, Lady Sansa.”

“You apologize a great deal for a prince,” she teased.

“Well, I do have cause,” he said, and realized he was teasing too. Tonight was full of firsts. ”I know my mother was beautiful, but I am not. It is hard to imagine I look like her. There are no songs sung about men with black hair.”

“There could be,” Sansa said. Her eyes were dreamy. She does love songs, Jon thought, the court gossip had been right.

The music shifted. They were likely starting a new dance. He should escort Sansa back to her family. But she held tight to his shoulder, and it was blissful to hold her, to sway with in the candlelight.  

“Dark as a raven’s wing,” she said. “Black as the night sky.”

Jon grinned. “There are few who admire the night sky.”

“I do,” Sansa said. “The stars, in the North, they’re bright and beautiful, scattered like diamonds in the dark. I miss them. I miss the black of the night sky, because it lets me see the stars.” 

Jon’s breath caught in his throat. She was lovely, and lonely, and he was almost in love with her already.

“I would show you the stars here, my lady, if you wished it.” Sansa nodded, sweetly, and Jon was soaring, flying.

Until he came crashing back down to earth. He winced.

“Except I can’t, there are too many clouds in King’s Landing, we never see them, I’m sorry, I did not want to make a promise I cannot keep, e-especially to you, my lady, I beg your pardon, I should have remembered, I-“

Sansa laughed. “Then you must come North, so you can see them there. Would you consider it, my prince? Only if you so desired, of course.” She lowered her eyes.

“I would, my lady,” he said gently. “I would, and gladly.” He didn’t know how to thank her, for easing his pain, for placing a trip North within his reach. For restoring part of his family to him.

Then Viserys rapped painfully on his shoulder. “Step aside, nephew, you’ve monopolized this Northern flower long enough.”

If Viserys’s breath had smelled of wine before, it reeked now. “Four dances with one partner would bore any girl, Jon, especially one so talented as our beautiful guest.”

There was nothing for it but to yield Sansa to Viserys. Jon bowed. “Thank you, my lady, for indulging me. I did not mean to take up so much of your time.”

Sansa curtsied. “The pleasure was mine, your highness. I am grateful for your courtesy.” They were slotted back into their respective roles, and that heady closeness Jon felt, when she’d talked to him of the stars, and Winterfell, was whisked away.

He left the dance floor as Viserys started in on Sansa. “The blue of your eyes is remarkable, my lady, I’ve been unable to keep myself from staring at you all night. You are an exquisite dancer as well...”

Everything she doesn’t want to hear, Jon thought. At least he’d had the chance to talk to her. At least he’d made her laugh. He tucked those precious moments away. Given the rules of court, it was unlikely he’d spend time with her again.

He thought of her laughter, of her love of the stars, as he drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Jon woke to a castle in chaos. He gathered the news in fits and starts. A torn dress, a scream in the night. Ned Stark, a man of even temper, barking orders, demanding the Stark family leave.

Aerys, Jon thought. Aerys, and Sansa. His grandfather’s...liberties with women who came to King’s Landing were legendary, and Sansa Stark was a new highborn girl at court.

Jon soon learned he was right. Rhaegar summoned Jon to his chambers early. Aegon and Viserys were already there, in their dressing gowns.

His father paced the large room, skimming his fingers along the tapestries on the walls. Dragon battles, wrought in fine detail, hung everywhere.

“Sit.” Rhaegar snapped his fingers at a chair. Jon sat, heavily.

Rhaegar was white as a sheet, apart from two dots of red high on his cheekbones. Whatever had transpired, it involved a threat to the family. Nothing else would drive Rhaegar into this bad humor.

Rhaegar took a deep breath. “You must handle this Jon, and handle it now. There was a scream in the middle of the night, Lady Sansa’s dress was ripped, and she ran from Aerys’s door.”

Jon’s blood began to boil. “Is she hurt? Is she all right? What happened?”

“Oh calm down, brother.” Aegon rolled his eyes. “He didn’t hurt her, not really.”

Viserys chimed in. “Her virtue’s intact, if that’s what you’re on about, she’s not spoiled or anything, he didn’t even pull her into the bedroom. Just grabbed her in the hall,” he scoffed.

“And tore her dress, and terrified her, enough that she screamed!” Jon was fuming.

“Silence!” Rhaegar roared. All three fell quiet. “It’s true this is likely overblown. But Ned Stark’s up in arms, demanding that the Starks leave now.”

Aegon sneered. “Fine, let them go. Who cares? She’s only a girl.”

Rhaegar gritted his teeth. “Pay attention. She might be only a girl, but she’s Ned Stark’s daughter, and the key to the North. We must preserve our relationship with the Starks. They are loyal to their own, and may take Lady Sansa’s tales as true. We must stop the damage, and stop it quickly.”

Rhaegar turned to Jon. “You share blood ties with her-“

“And danced with her for an hour last night,” Viserys muttered.

Rhaegar pressed his lips into a thin line. “That was a grievous error, Jon, but it may help us now. Talk to her. Convince her she’s exaggerating. By the time you’re done, I want her pliant, and ready to forget this ever happened. Sansa will then talk to her father, and get us out of this mess.”

Jon stood. He was shaking with rage. “You know it’s true, father. You know what grandfather’s capable of. And yet you want me to _lie_ to her?”

“Precisely,” Rhaegar said. “That is precisely what I am ordering you to do. Go. I’m told she’s in the godswood praying. Go, and mend this rift.”

***

Jon took deep breaths as he walked to the godswood. The grove of trees was in the middle of the gardens at King’s Landing. The grounds were well-groomed, with marble fountains and benches strategically placed so that visitors could rest. Jon ignored the flowers, the climbing vines, the chirping birds. He had to get to Sansa. He had to help her.

But he stopped short at the edge of the dark grove. He’d prayed here, more than once. He felt a connection to the North when he did, a link to a place he’d never seen.

Jom willed his pulse to slow. His anger was not what she needed. But what did she need? Was he truly supposed to disturb her at prayer?

Sansa emerged from the grove while he was still dithering. Her grey dress skimmed her ankles, and had a simple, high neckline. A younger girl’s dress, Jon thought, one she’s outgrown.

Because his grandfather had destroyed her other dress.

Because, maybe, she felt she needed to dress modestly to stay safe.

“Prince Jon.” Sansa’s eyes were red-rimmed, but she curtsied swiftly.

“Lady Sansa,” Jon said, and bowed. They were far away from the ease and warmth of their dance.

“I presume you have heard the news, my prince.” She twisted her hands together. “I am sorry for the shame I caused your family.”

Jon’s anger rose up again. He would not follow his father’s orders. Not when Sansa was in pain, and frightened. Let the consequences fall on him. “Our _grandfather_ shamed our family, Lady Sansa. I wish I could undo what he’s done. He is to blame, not you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. A ghost of a smile played at the corner of her lips. Jon was relieved to see her spirits lift.

“What is it my lady?”

“You seemed so fearsome just now, my prince. Like a...like a dragon.”

“I only want to keep you safe, my lady,” he said gently. Safe, and happy, and cherished, he thought. He longed to hold her.  But he would not take a single liberty, not after his family’s mistreatment.

“I...may I ask you a favor, my prince?”

“Anything, Lady Sansa,” he said instantly.

Another small smile. “You make promises quickly, your highness.”

How could he make her understand, without scaring her, or overwhelming her? How could he express the swelling of his heart when she stood before him?

“Anything,” he said softly. “If it is in my power to grant it, it will be yours. I swear it.”

She flushed. “I would be grateful if you would escort me back to my chambers. The gardens...”

Are full of prying eyes, Jon thought.

“Of course, my lady.” But Jon froze. Should he offer his arm? Perhaps she wanted to walk next to him, without touching him. Then Sansa lifted her chin, and held out her arm.

Jon swallowed. “Are you sure, Lady Sansa? I would understand, if you never wanted to touch a Targaryen again.”

Sansa’s eyes softened. “You are kind, my prince. And you are right, I would not trust anyone in your family. Except you. I expect you were sent here to appease me, convince me my memories of last night were false. So that the Starks would maintain relations with your family. Were you?”

Jon was impressed. Court politics came more easily to her than they did to him. He would not lie to her.

“I was. But I know my grandfather, and I believe your story. If Aerys drives a rift between our families, then my family deserves it. You should not pay the price for his cruelty.”

Sansa took a step towards him. He marveled at how much bravery it took, to step closer to a Targaryen after one had hurt her.

“Someone always pays the price,” she said softly. “Will it be you, my prince? Will your father be angry? I do not want you to suffer on my account.”

“I would suffer gladly on your account, my lady. I want to keep you from harm, to protect you, see that you are safe, always.” The words poured out before Jon could stop them. They were too much, too dangerous. He did not want Sansa to think he was trying to take advantage.

Sansa said nothing, only tucked her arm in his, and smiled.

They encountered members of the household as soon as they left the godswood. Many shot Sansa surreptitious disapproving glances. Sansa withdrew further into herself with each stare. Jon wanted to snap at servants and lords alike. _She did not shame us. She is not to blame_.

They arrived at Sansa’s chambers all too soon. Jon wanted to stay, to talk with her, soothe her, hold her hand. Instead he released her arm, and bowed. “I will take my leave of you, my lady.”

Sansa paused at the door. She seemed to be working up the courage to speak. Finally she turned to him.

“Did you mean it? Earlier, about granting favors? That you’d do anything in your power?” She was gripping the door handle tightly.

Jon spoke evenly. He made sure she met his gaze. “I do not make promises lightly. Yes, Lady Sansa, I meant it then, and I still do.”

She blushed. “I would – I would like to hold your hand, your – my prince.” She stumbled over the words.

Jon could not think of a request that would be easier to grant. He reached out wordlessly, and let her take his hand. His heart raced when she laced her fingers with his.

Many court women had taken his hand over the years, in an effort to charm him. They’d stroke his palm or hold on too tightly. 

But he and Lady Sansa were both asking and offering freely. She smiled at him, and Jon's breath caught at the beauty of it. “May I ask something of you my lady? O-Only if it is something you want too, I do not mean to, I would never-“

Sansa squeezed his hand gently. “I know, my prince. I know you would not harm or force me.”

“May I kiss your hand?”

Aegon and Viserys would be dying of laughter if they could see him, blushing like a maid, asking permission to kiss a northern girl’s hand. He could hear them now, _just do it, you’re the prince, she’s only a girl_. They’d have grabbed her hand without blinking.

That was the problem. The rot at the core of his family. They took and took and took, heedless of the consequences.

Sansa flushed and nodded. Jon’s heart lifted. He brushed his lips over her knuckles and had to close his eyes briefly at the thrill of it.

“I would ask something else of you, your highness.” Sansa’s voice was lighter, and the tension was gone from her shoulders.

“Anything, my lady.” _Always_.

“I would like to say goodbye to you once more before we go.” She hesitated “That may be difficult, your family might-“

“I will arrange it. Do not concern yourself with my family.” In truth Jon wasn’t sure how he’d manage his family, or the Starks, but he would, by the gods, he’d surmount any obstacle, fight any battle.

“Thank you, my prince,” Sansa said, and curtsied before she entered her rooms.

Jon stood by her doorway for a long time, ruminating, before he finally understood the wish in his heart. He wanted to court her, to see if he could win her hand. Which meant he had two large battles to fight, before the day was over.

***

Rhaegar was not blind. He saw that Jon, of all people, was courting Sansa.

Most likely by accident, Rhaegar mused. Jon had made her laugh when they danced. She'd blushed prettily when they'd dallied by her chambers, according to reports.

He sighed. Well, there was more than one way to mend a rift between houses. The Highgarden girl. Margaery, was a better match for Aegon anyway. The North was a dreary, cold country. Perhaps it was best for his brooding, moody son. And Sansa would be key to securing the North’s loyalty.

A restless kingdom best left alone, Rhaegar thought, before he summoned Jon to his chambers.

He chastised him for his disobedience, and listened with faint amusement as Jon raged about injustice and harm. When Jon had calmed down enough to ask permission to seek Sansa’s hand, Rhaegar waived his hand loftily and granted it.

He smirked as Jon left. How his son would secure Ned Stark’s permission was another matter entirely.

***

Jon trembled as he walked to Ned Stark’s chambers. He had no idea how this would go.

_I killed your sister, my grandfather assaulted your daughter, may I court Sansa?_

Gods give me strength, he thought as he knocked on the door. He held on tight to the memory of the light in Sansa’s blue eyes.

Ned Stark opened the door in a blaze of fury. Half-packed trunks were strewn around the room. His face was red, and his hand gripped Ice’s pommel.

“Did Rhaegar send you? Too cowardly to do his own dirty work? Are you here to pay me off? You may be my nephew, but if you offer me gold from that dragon’s hoard to fix what you’ve done to Sansa, as if she was a draft horse, I will strike you down where you stand.”

Jon’s throat closed. Ned Stark was a man of his word, and Jon did not doubt for an instant that he’d wield Ice to separate Jon’s head from his shoulders.

“Father wait, please, wait, don’t hurt him.” Sansa was suddenly by Jon’s side.

“Sansa?” Ned’s grip on Ice relaxed. “Why are you here? Go, finish packing, we leave tomorrow.”

Sansa ducked her head. “I know, father. I only came because I thought Jon might try to speak to you. He’s here to ask if he can bid me farewell before we go.”

Jon groaned inwardly. He was here to ask a great deal more than that.

Sansa persisted. “Please father, let him, I...” She looked over at Jon and for a moment the rest of Jon’s world vanished. It was just the two of them, gazing into each other’s eyes.

Ned cleared his throat. “Very well, Jon, say what you came here to say. I’ll hear you, for Sansa’s sake.”

Jon steadied himself. “I did not come with gold, Lord Stark. What my grandfather did to Sansa cannot be excused, or paid for. He hurt her, and he shamed our family. I am sorry for it, though I know how little my apology is worth.”

Sansa broke in. “Jon was supposed to force me, father, wear me down until I agreed that nothing had happened. But he didn’t,” she added quickly, as Ned’s grip on Ice tightened again. “He didn’t, father, he apologized, he was kind to me, he saw me safely to my chambers.”

She moved closer to Ned. “It’s Jon who’ll pay the price, father. Rhaegar will be furious, and will take his anger out on Jon.” She glanced at Jon. “And Jon would bear that burden, for me.”

The corner of Ned’s mouth quirked. “Sansa, did you plan on speaking for Jon all day? Let the boy talk.”

At least Ned’s face was a lighter shade of red, Jon thought. He screwed up his courage. He’d have to overcome his shyness, to ask to court Sansa while she stood right next to him.

“Lady Sansa is right. I did come to ask if I could bid her farewell once more. But I also came to ask y-your permission to court her. I care for her, my lord. She’s dear to me, and I swear to you that I would protect her.”

Ned looked from Jon to Sansa and back again. He ran a hand over his face. “Seems to me you’ve started already. Sansa, is this what you want? You do _not_ need to agree. You do not need to appease these Targaryen princes.”

Sansa gave her father a shy smile. “I know. But yes, it is.” She slipped her hand into Jon’s. “It would please me greatly, father, if you said yes.”  

Ned sighed. “Very well,” he grumbled. “You have my permission. We’ve made a right mess of this visit. But if he makes you smile, then perhaps it was worth the trip.”

He pointed a finger at Jon.  “Don’t think I missed you two laughing on the dance floor either. I’m not entirely surprised by the request. But I would not have granted it, if Sansa hadn’t come to your defense.”

“Then I am grateful beyond measure that she was here,” Jon said, and squeezed Sansa’s hand gently.

***

All the lords and ladies were packed into the courtyard, to watch the Starks take their leave. Jon heard muttered bets about whether Ned Stark would challenge Rhaegar to a duel.

He glimpsed Sansa’s red hair, and wished he could run to her. Instead he walked at a stately pace, to take his place in the retinue. In the end, Rhaegar and Ned Stark had agreed to the traditional departure ceremony, rather than having the Starks barrel out of King's Landing, as Ned had originally intended. Jon stood in the family line, doing his best not to fidget, waiting eagerly to see Sansa again. There was a small flicker of fear at the back of his mind. Courting involved writing, and Jon was no poet. He worried Sansa might be disappointed by his first few letters, and might never write back.

Aegon stepped on his foot discreetly. “Stop slouching, Jon. Do your best not to look glum.”

Jon sighed, and stood up straighter. He did his best to treat Lord and Lady Stark with deference when they said their goodbyes. Then Sansa was before him, clad in a dove grey cloak. Jon wanted to wrap his arms around her, to beg her to stay with him. But he could not do either, until he won her hand.

“Farewell, your highness. Thank you for your hospitality.” She curtsied low, but slipped on the ground. Jon caught her.

“I apologize, my prince, how clumsy of me.” Sansa pressed a small scroll into his palm. The movement was hidden by her cloak.  Jon’s heart raced.

“Is all well, Lady Sansa? Were you hurt?” Jon raised her to her feet again.

“Not at all, thanks to you,” she said, and smiled.

Jon swallowed. _I love you. I want to marry you. I’ll ache for you when you’re gone._

“Farewell, Lady Sansa. It was an honor to meet you,” he said.

Sansa was whisked into a coach, and the Targaryen court had never felt emptier.

***

Jon lit a candle in his chambers that evening, and unrolled Sansa’s scroll. A poem, he thought, she’s written a poem. He traced his fingers over the flowing script.  

_I met a dragon as fierce as night_

_With eyes as grey as the summer sea._

_He bore a maiden on his back_

_And carried her to safety._

Bold, for Sansa to have done such a thing. But she’d done it wisely, slipped the paper into his hand discreetly. As a result it was a secret he could keep, just for him.  He glowed as he read the poem, over and over. He smiled.

A dragon fierce as night. 

He took out his inkpot and quill, and dug a scrap of parchment from his desk. He’d never written a poem in his life, but he’d try, for her. He closed his eyes, and summoned up his memories of Sansa Stark.

The rest was easy.

_I met a maiden brave and beautiful_

_Who triumphed in a dragon’s den._

_She touched the heart of a shy prince_

_And gave him back his home._


	3. Chapter 3

Daenerys and Rhaenys were tinged pink from the sun when they burst in on Jon crumpling up yet another letter to Sansa. Daenerys led her niece by the arm into Jon’s chambers. They took up residence in his solar, and called for wine and refreshments.

Daenerys and Rhaenys were both swathed in bright silks, the kinds of reds and yellows found only in Dorne. The cut of the silk gowns was far more revealing than the fashions at the Targaryen court. Jon suspected Rhaegar disapproved. He also suspected Daenerys delighted in flaunting the gifts they’d received. She’d wear her finery a few days longer just to spite her brother, and she’d encouraged Rhaenys to do the same.

Rhaegar ruled the castle easily when Daenerys was gone – Aerys was not a challenging king to hide away – but Daenerys had never backed down from her brother. Now that she'd returned, her wrath had been endured by Rhaegar, Aegon and Viserys alike.

Since Daenerys had slammed the door shut to Rhaegar's chambers, Jon had only been able to catch whispers of gossip from the rest of the court. But now, Daenerys was thrilled to give him the details.

“Weak-bellied cowards, I called them. Shameful, to allow Aerys to totter around these halls and assault our guests.”

Rhaenys poured wine while Daenerys spoke. The servants had brought a carafe of fine Dornish red, another souvenir from their trip. Rhaenys served Daenerys first, and then gave herself and Jon a glass.  Rhaenys took a dainty sip.

Jon had missed Rhaenys sorely while she was gone. She was short, dark-haired, shy, and withdrawn, but underneath was a well of sweetness Jon had never seen the bottom of. She didn’t feel the need to hide her withered right arm when she sat and talked with Jon. There had been intense speculation that part of why Rhaegar remarried, and had taken Lyanna as a wife, was because Rhaenys had, according to her father, "come out crippled."

Jon and Rhaenys shared some of the same guilt over Lyanna’s death. He’d assured her over and over that Rhaegar married who he wanted, when he wanted, and Lyanna’s death had nothing to do with her. Rhaenys had done the same for him. Neither believed the other, but they both understood deep down the pain of being a disappointment to their House.

The further Rhaegar pushed Rhaenys away, the more firmly and deliberately Daenerys took Rhaenys under her wing. Rhaenys was smart enough to know that while Daenerys loved her, she was also another tool of rebellion for Daenerys herself. Still, Jon was grateful she had the protection, and she’d flourished under Daenerys’s care.

Now that Daenerys was done excoriating Rhaegar, the conversation turned to Sansa. At least Jon had been able to keep Sansa’s poem hidden from their prying eyes. He held it tight in his grip.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jon folded his arms across his chest.

Daenerys’s eyes flashed. “But you did talk to _her_ , apparently. On purpose. While you danced.”

Rhaenys leaned forward. “Four dances! Well done Jon. If she drew words from you and stayed with you-”

“Did you step on her feet? You must have, at least once.”

“Daenerys, please. Jon’s wooing her. I’m sure he didn’t-“

‘I did, actually,” Jon said. He recalled the quick, easy tug of her hand, how she’d made it seem as if he hadn’t made a mistake at all. “But...”

Rhaenys took pity on him. “She must be extraordinary.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure Sansa is a glorious creature.” Daenerys waived her hand. “A beauty, and a daughter of Winterfell. The key to the North. You won’t be her only suitor.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” _Do you think it doesn’t scare me, each night?_

Daenerys inclined her head. “You’re concerned. And you should be. But we’re here, and we’ve both been wooed, many times.”

Jon hid his smile when Rhaenys rolled her eyes. Daenerys had no end of suitors, but Rhaegar had only allowed Rhaenys to be courted this past spring.

Rhaenys stacked the blank pages on parchment on Jon’s table neatly in front of her. Jon had tried for hours to write his next letter, until his eyes crossed and the paper seemed to accuse him of being a failure with women.

Rhaenys touched his arm. “What did you talk to her about, Jon? We can start there.”

“We talked about stars,” he said, “and Winterfell. I did not want to talk about Lyanna.”

Daenerys’s lips twitched. “Yes, don’t bring up her dead aunt.”

“Not in your wooing letter to Winterfell’s rose,” Rhaenys added.  Jon scowled. Daenerys and Rhaenys were smirking - _smirking_ – at his discomfort.

Jon lashed out. “She is beautiful, and brave, and a person, n-not a flower!”

Daenerys took advantage of his fit of anger and snatched Sansa’s poem from his hands. Jon was furious. He didn’t want either of them to read it. That intimate moment was for him and Sansa alone.

Daenerys smoothed out the poem with something close to triumph. “Well. A dragon fierce as night indeed. If she brings this much color to your cheeks, we must help you. You’ll need to write to her. Send her gifts.”

Jon felt lost. “A ribbon for her hair?”

Daenerys sighed. “Do you want to be like every other man who’s trying to win her, Jon? Think harder.”

Jon gritted his teeth. Daenerys was more like Rhaegar than she believed. And he did want to make Sansa feel special.

“The stars,” he blurted. “I want to send her the stars.”

Rhaenys giggled. “Well, we can’t pull one down from the sky like House Dayne.”

Jon put his head in his hands. “Perhaps I should just send her a ribbon.” He was spiraling again. _What if she hates my letters, what if she never loves me, what if-_

Rhaenys took his hand. “It’s almost as if you belong to a wealthy house that can afford to make your beloved a piece of jewelry,” she murmured.

“Rhaegar would gladly open the coffers for this trip,” Daenerys added. “He’s sending your tutor and several guards already. He’ll want you to make a royal impression.”

 _And I only long to see her again_ , Jon thought fiercely. _See her, and hold her, and have her gaze into my eyes_. He would enjoy seeing her eyes light up and her breath catch at a gift, though. One as beautiful as she was.

Rhaenys squeezed his hand. “What would you like to give her, Jon?”

“A tiara,” he said slowly. It was easier for him to keep going if he spoke to Rhaenys. “For her hair, Rhaenys, you should see it; it’s like fire, like molten copper.” He grabbed a quill and started sketching. “We could make it out of gold and set it with sapphires to match the blue of her eyes, the deepest blue you’ve ever seen-“

Daenerys snorted. “Are you trying to kill the raven? You’d have to send it by wagon. Look, send her something small - yes, we understand, she’s worth more, but do you want to burden her with a heavy pendant she couldn’t wear before you ride up to Winterfell’s gates? Under other circumstances, a woman being courted by House Targaryen could display such a gift. But your instincts are right, Jon. This situation is more delicate. The North may not welcome you.”

Jon’s hackles rose. He didn’t need to be reminded, that there were some in the North who wanted him dead.

“Send her something small,” Rhaenys added. “It won’t insult her. You do understand she’ll be excited to get your letters, your scrolls?”

Daenerys broke in. “You you also understand that a letter might be read by her father, and Ned Stark seems to be the least romantically inclined man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Give her something she can snatch before her father sees it.” Daenerys nodded to herself.  “A chain she can wear under her robes. A secret for her, that she can wear every day, and think of you.”

Daenerys swept out of the room, off to go riding now that she thought she’d solved Jon’s problem for him. She loved the speed, the freedom, the fresh air.  If there were any dragons left, Jon thought, Daenerys would never leave the skies.

Rhaenys stayed behind, and they both sat in silence for a moment.

Rhaenys reached for a grape. “What troubles you, Jon?”

“What doesn’t trouble me, sister?” Rhaenys laughed, a bright, trilling sound, and Jon’s heart swelled with pride. For the right man, the man who could see her for the loving woman she was, she would make a wonderful and devoted wife.

“I’d be out of my mind with worry too, but is there something specific I might help you with?”

Jon shifted in his seat. He was loathe to ask for assistance.

“Jon. Do you remember the hours you sat with me when I was a girl? After father gave up teaching me to write?"

Jon frowned. Rhaenys had been clumsy at first with a quill. Jon had helped her, after all if he could write with one hand, why not the other? She was patient, diligent, and now writing was second nature to her.

“You gave me back my hand, brother. Let me help you now.”

“I...I’m worried about stuttering. I want to make the best impression I can.”

“When do you stutter least?”

Jon considered her question. When he was relaxed. And the few times he sang.

So Rhaenys stayed with him, as he’d done with her. She helped him breathe, and sing, and prepare to woo Sansa. She decided to meet with the jeweler that evening to order a slim chain holding a tiny golden star. Before she left, she encouraged him to write as many letters to Sansa as he needed to, without fretting over which one he’d send.

That night, slowly but surely, he built up a small pile of short, heartfelt scrolls for Winterfell’s daughter.  The candle had burned down to a nub by the time Rhaenys returned with Sansa’s gift.

Jon held the chain up to the candlelight. “How did they finish it so quickly?”

“The jewelers were waiting for your orders, Jon.”

“You mean father had them at the ready.”

Rhaenys tilted her head. “You do realize we’re all trying to help you, Jon? And now you can send your first raven to Sansa as early as tomorrow.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m glad for you, brother.’

Jon could never stay in a bad humor for long when Rhaenys was near. “Thank you, sister. I’m glad too.”

***

Rhaegar took him aside at breakfast the next morning, and shattered his plans.  

“Daenerys tells me you’re penning poetry for Sansa.” Jon glanced over at his aunt. Daenerys’s mouth was set in a thin line. She shook her head at Jon. _Don’t_ _listen to him_. But Rhaegar was the acting king, and Daenerys could only do so much to keep him in line.

Rhaegar shook him gently. “Answer me, son. I’m only trying to assist you. You are, aren’t you? You blush like a girl.”

Jon gritted his teeth. “Yes. I am.”

Rhaegar thrust a sealed scroll into his hands. “Here. I took the liberty of writing your first letter for you. Stop frowning, boy. I’m an artist, Jon, a songwriter, and your trip to Winterfell is important to the Crown. There will be more where that came from, once Sansa sends you a raven in return. We’ll win this girl’s heart for you, never fear.” Rhaegar clapped him on the back.

Jon sighed. Perhaps Rhaegar was right. His father was a renowned singer and poet. He’d felt close to Sansa last night as he wrote, like he was talking to her, making her smile again. But in the bright light of day, his doubts crept back.  Didn’t Sansa deserve the finest prose, even if it didn’t come from his own hand?

He picked at his meal, making a few words of conversation with Aegon while he ate. His stomach churned at the sight of the red wax dragon seal on Rhaegar’s scroll next to his plate.

Aegon stopped Jon before he left. “Viserys wants you to meet him in the rookery.”

Jon scanned the room. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts he hadn’t noticed Viserys’s absence. “He’s there now? Why?”

Aegon snorted. “How should I know?” He tore into another piece of bread. “Just go find him.”

Jon tucked the letter into his belt, and headed for the northern side of the castle. The winds whipping through the courtyard were swift.  He clutched Rhaegar’s scroll tightly, and paused three times to make sure Sansa’s chain was still in his pocket.

He heard the ravens cawing long before he climbed the tower. He navigated the narrow staircase carefully. He’d been to the rookery once before, for a brief tour as a young boy. Princes typically handed their scrolls to pages, and then waited for a scroll in return.

Jon swore as he slipped and struck his knee on the stone. Now he’d have a bruise for his trouble.

Viserys was stroking the beak of a bird as Jon swung the door open. The smell of fresh straw and birds kept in close quarters was overpowering. The ravens flapped, startled.

Viserys was swaying on his feet by the open window, and Jon was almost certain it wasn’t the breeze.

“Ah, Jon, there you are. Ready to send a letter to your lady love?”

Jon’s knee was throbbing, and he had neither time nor patience for his drunken uncle. “I am. And I know how to tie a scroll to a bird’s leg, Uncle, so I won’t need your assistance.” _Can probably do it quicker in my state anyway_.

Viserys smiled. “Sansa spent half her dance with me looking for you. She hid it well. Impressive, actually. Thank the gods I prodded you onto the floor.”

“Yes, I’m grateful for your matchmaking skills.”

Viserys laughed, loud and lusty. “Oh, you do hate me, boy, and I don’t blame you, but I want you to succeed. That’s why I’m here. If I’m lucky, you’ll marry her and leave King’s Landing altogether.”

Viserys put his arm around Jon’s shoulder. His breath stank of ale. “Look, you and I, we’ll never take the crown, not unless a war carries all of us away. You’re odd, and you’re dull, and you’re miserable here. Aegon will wed Margaery. They’ll find someone in Dorne for me. But you – you’ve solved your father’s problem, don’t you see it? He’s so pleased with himself. Marry you off to Sansa and the stain from Aerys goes away. And you can go brood with Ned Stark. Now let me see them, the scroll and the chain both.”

Jon relinquished both.

Viserys squinted at the necklace. “Let me guess. Daenerys’s idea.”

“She said it was–“

“Very romantic, much like the one she received from Oberyn Martell.” Viserys slung an arm around his shoulder. “Let me tell you a secret. Women remember the ravens that make it. Not the ravens that don’t. I tried to send a rose necklace to Margaery Tyrell. Found the bird dead in a bloody heap on the grounds the next morning. The chain twisted up its legs. Who knows how many gifts for Daenerys and Rhaenys litter the countryside? Send her the scroll and the scroll only.”

Jon closed his mouth after a minute. “Very well.”

“And this scroll, is this yours, or the one Rhaegar wrote for you?”

“How did you know about that?”

“While Daenerys may despise me, she despises Rhaegar more. Started fuming about how he was writing your scrolls for you.” Viserys peered at him. “Do you think Rhaegar will write a love poem anything like the one you’ll send? No, his will be a thousand times better.”

Jon’s jaw twitched.

Viserys sighed. “And Sansa will know. Like I said, sharp, that one. And apparently your special combination of–” he gestured vaguely to Jon “–earnestness and awkwardness, is what she wants. Be honest. You’ve written other poems, haven’t you?”

Jon gave up. “Yes, I have.”

Viserys nodded. “Good. Go get them. I’ll burn these. We’ll send your insipid prose along, win you your girl, and I’ll lie and tell Rhaegar his brilliant prose is soaring through the air.”

Jon trudged down the stairs again, feeling a bit like he’d been tossed about in a hard sparring match. Why did they each care so much? He trusted Rhaenys implicitly, but Daenerys, Viserys and Rhaegar had their own conflicting agendas. He took some solace in the fact that the words Sansa would read if his raven reached Winterfell would be his own – for better or worse.


End file.
